Sanctuary

3

I decided I’d better do something about the letter, and the action I thought of filled me with dread.

My best friend, way back in my early days as a young guard, had been Clancy. I got bounced and he went all the way to the top and was now Superintendent. We shared a history. Over the years, my involvement in some cases had made him look bad and he had been determined to even the score. His early friendship with me had become a bitter enmity. He loathed me with a ferocious passion, saw me as a drunk, a loser — you get the picture. And the fact that I’d solved some cases he’d abandoned made it worse.

I was now renting a small place in Dominic Street. It was only temporary, I told myself. When Ridge got back on her feet I’d head for America. It was tiny, just a living room and a bedroom, and cost a fortune, like everything in our new rich city. Someone had cooked a lot of curry in it at one time and the smell still lingered. I had a single bed, ten books, yeah, ten, one sofa, one kettle, and what passed for a shower, behind a cardboard alcove.

Oh, lest I forget, and a portable television, black and white, that flickered constantly, like my bloody life.

Next morning, I was sneezing. I suppose if you stand on a bridge for a few hours in the driving rain, you’re not going to be the picture of health.

I dressed in my one suit, a shirt that was more grey than white, a Galway tie and a pair of Timberland boots I’d bought for my trip to America. I’m sure they would have been real useful in Mexico. I had a coffee — black, as I’d forgotten to buy milk. It tasted as bitter as I felt. I took a deep breath and headed out.

At least the rain had stopped and something that might have been the sun was trying to make an appearance.

It failed.

My building had six apartments and I’d only met one of the neighbours, a very camp gay who liked to play. His name, or so he said, was Albert. ‘Or you can call me Hon if you like, big guy.’

How the fuck do I find them or they me? It’s like there’s a neon sign above my head that reads: ‘Gather here, you crazies of all creeds.’

They did.

He was in his very bad late thirties, emaciated to the point of anorexia, always dressed in black and with the worst comb-over I’ve ever seen.

He was coming out of his apartment and was, of course, dressed in black. On seeing my black suit, he screamed in mock horror, ‘Oh my God! One of us will have to change.’

I tried to get past him as quickly as I could, said, ‘It’s a little late for me to become gay.’

Took him a moment, then he playfully punched my arm.

I loved that.

And he said, ‘Oh you, you are wicked.’

Is there a reply to this? I mean, seriously.

He continued, ‘Jack. Is it OK to call you Jack? I’m having a little soirée on Friday and I’d love you to come. Nothing fancy, just bring yourself and a lot of alcohol or drugs. Just kidding — but do bring drugs.’

I gave him the look. His accent was that new trend, quasi-American and very fucking annoying. I asked, ‘Where are you from?’

Paused a second then said, ‘Aren’t we all citizens of le monde, dear heart? But if you must know and you swear never to tell a soul, I’m from Cork.’

I was pretty sure they didn’t use soirée a whole lot in Cork, but Ireland was changing so fast, maybe they did. I asked, ‘And did you play hurling?’

The finest hurlers come from Cork. They are born with a hurley in their fist.

He was not amused. ‘Hardly.’

I said, ‘Well, here’s the deal. In my shitty room there, I’ve got a hurley and if you ever call me any of those endearments again, I’ll give you a real fast lesson in the game.’

He faltered for a moment before recovering. ‘You brute, you. Must dash. Don’t forget Good Friday.’

I shouted, ‘I don’t do parties.’

He threw back, ‘Never too late to start, even for a man of your senior years.’

Touché.